Mélange
by musouka and Lerayl
Summary: FranAdrian. Ten moments in the lives of two very different women who have been, nevertheless, drawn to one another.


**Mélange**

(For our dearest Funk, on his 21st)

* * *

Adrian raises her eyes as though prompted by some sort of sixth sense. Out of all the people moving though the busy airport terminal, one catches hold of her gaze. Her carry-on luggage chooses that moment to tip; she fumbles with it, hands shaking, even as she tries to keep the woman in her line of sight. 

Her first impulse is that she's mistaken. What is the likelihood, of all the people, of all the places, that it would be _her_?

No, it is her.

Even from behind, there's no mistaking that confident stride, the hand resting on—almost covering—her whip with the ease of one who's used it many times as she continues on her way. People part for her as she walks.

Adrian suddenly knows that if you show her a room with thousands of people, she will always be able to pick out Franziska von Karma with ease, that her eyes will be forever drawn to her as unerringly as a magnet to its opposite polarity.

For a moment, she considers calling out to her, but the words die unspoken on her lips. Sighing, she rights her luggage and continues on her way.

She does allow herself a small—foolish—smile and entertains thoughts of "fate".

* * *

It's around this time that her phone usually rings. She has become so accustomed to it that she'd taken the habit of removing her cell phone from her purse an hour prior, knowing it was coming; a new, strange ritual unattached to the stigma of being a von Karma. 

It's been four days of silence.

Franziska understands the reason; when they had last spoke, the excitement in Adrian's voice had been palpable. She'd been hired to manage an exhibition hall; it was the largest job she had landed since being released from prison, months ago.

She had been occupied with work. Of course. Natural. _Correct._

And it was absurd, childish, _foolish_ to attribute this sense of anxiety to the lack of a person's _voice._ She knows this.

She still knows it as she presses cool metal against her ear, as she presses the call button before she can stop herself. As she hears it ring, and as she wills herself not to hang up.

"Franziska?" The answering voice has a sleepless weight, but there is warmth in the surprise beneath it. "How are you?"

The words spill out before she is ready for them to.

"All right," then, "now."

She thinks she can hear Adrian's smile on the other line.

* * *

Celeste was always smiling, she remembers. 

Sometimes she wonders what led her to believe these two women were so similar, especially when she sees the two of them lined up in a row on her mantle. Celeste's coloring was darker; Franziska's skin is so white, her hair so light.

The differences don't stop there. Adrian recalls having to beg Franziska for a picture when she visited. Franziska's face isn't turned towards the camera, she's glancing towards it nervously, habitual frown on her face. As though it's the first time anyone had ever asked for her picture.

Celeste's shot is a candid. The surprise is evident at the edge of her smile and in her eyes. Adrian still remembers her throaty laugh—_What are you doing with that? You should have given me some warning!_—as though it had been yesterday.

She's never heard Franziska laugh.

She wants to.

And yet…there is something intangibly fragile about both of them. Something that brings to mind her mother's collection of spun glass—_Don't touch you might break them_—in the upraised corner of Celeste's mouth, in the haughty tilt of Franziska's chin.

Sometimes she wonders if it wasn't their strength that drew her so firmly to them, but a sort of mutual recognition…

* * *

Franziska lingers over the vase. 

It's expensive—money is no issue, but it's a simple fact—and delicate, but the subtle curves and inky color capture her gaze, to return again and again. That's the problem. It's impossible to tell whether the other woman would like it or if she would be imposing her own taste upon her.

Adrian likes black, right? Franziska has seen her wear it.

But, still…

This is new to Franziska. She's never _worried_ about whether or not Miles will like what she's picked. She knows him.

Compared to him, Adrian is a stranger.

So why does it mean so much that this "stranger" like this gift? Why does the thought of her voice with that certain, special tinge of warmth make Fran's throat dry and constrict?

Why has she spent two hours in this shop when it was a whim that led her here in the first place? _It's Adrian's birthday soon, maybe I should…_

Franziska resolutely turns her back and walks over to the small selection of cards the shop offers. She plucks the first one she glances at; making sure it doesn't say anything she doesn't (does) _want_ it to say.

She does not look at the vase as she pays and leaves.

* * *

The whip is far heavier than she expected. 

Adrian knows it's likely a bad idea--it's late, Franziska asleep in bed and there's a part of her that _knows_ she would be irate if she knew about this--but curiosity had gotten the better of her in the end. And somehow, she thinks, she cannot help but believe that this is another step, a _necessary_ one, to reach and understand the woman she had fallen in love with. Who had saved her with the ease and confidence with which she had used this weapon.

She had admired it so for a long time when they'd first met; the grace of her movement, the way she controlled it as though it were an extension of herself. To _force_ others to respect her, to refuse any notion of weakness or compromise. She had watched her use it and thought of strength.

But when she lifts it herself, she does not feel strength. The first thing that registers when she touches it is that the leather is cold and worn against her skin. And holding it now--feeling the chill of it, _weight_ of it in her own hands, Adrian's eyes focus on Franziska's sleeping form, just across the room.

And she feels her heart breaking.

* * *

It's her first time in a floral shop. In the hazy dream that was the first eighteen years of her life, she'd never bothered before. But it's different now; with Adrian, there are many first times. 

"My parents," Adrian explained, "Their anniversary." Franziska's gaze sifts through the rows of flowers and thinks that there are none that she could ever associate with her father.

"Come to think of it, I never asked." Adrian turns. "What's your favorite flower?"

The question startles her; she repeats it silently and finds herself at a loss. She starts to respond, fails, and starts again, and finds herself floundering. Adrian waits.

It was such a simple question, and she had no answer.

Finally, she points at random; doesn't look to see where.

"That."

"The azalea?" Adrian sounds surprised. Franziska's face burns. "Hmm."

"No." The hastiness of the words belie the dignity she's desperately trying to cling to. "Nevermind. What a foolish question, anyway."

Adrian looks thoughtful.

When the bouquet comes to her office, she suppresses her astonishment in time to whip the same out of her surrounding coworkers. Upon returning, she considers. The packaging is unruly. Leaves drift onto the polished surface of the desk. The petals glow vibrant orange.

She places them in water.

* * *

Adrian is still fuming. 

Intermixed with the anger is guilt; she knows she said things she shouldn't. But that undisturbed look of certainty on Franziska's face—_Adrian, I _told_ you I have work that day_. Never considering that it was her mistake. The error has to be on Adrian's end.

Adrian isn't a von Karma.

Her anger is escaping from her, and in its place depression seeps in. Sometimes—not often—but sometimes, she wonders if it's worth it. If it wouldn't be easier to have a girlfriend that didn't stiffen when their hands met, a girlfriend that smiles and wants to go out and wouldn't use work as a wall between the two of them.

And then she remembers.

While she was doing dishes. ("I'm sorry, I'm going to be very busy these next few weeks. It would be a good idea to reschedule our date.")

Something heavy settles in the pit of her stomach.

She glances at their bedroom door.

Franziska has been in there ever since the argument. The walk across the room seems long; the soft tap echoes loudly.

From within: "Adrian?"

There's no trace of that "undisturbed certainty" in her voice now. It's amazing how much can be put into one word.

"Franziska, I'm sorry..."

* * *

Franziska glares at her nemesis. It does not glare back, content to rest in her grip, silently mocking.

It seemed a good idea at the time; it was one of the rare occasions that Adrian was working late and Franziska found herself sitting quietly at home, glancing up at the clock more often than she cared to admit. Adrian had scolded herself that morning for letting the apartment become so filthy, and Prosecutor Franziska von Karma had no reason to believe she would have any difficulty with something as base as _housecleaning._

Things had not gone quite as planned. She jabbed the broom under the couch and jerked it back out again--clumsily--spluttering and falling back at the explosion of dust in her face that followed. Frustrated, she beat at the clouds now swirling airborne.

Then she heard laughter. Franziska turned, aghast, with spots of dust in her hair and on the tip of her nose.

"How long have you been watching?"

"Just a few minutes." Adrian giggles. Franziska scowls. "_Really._"

Adrian moves behind her--Franziska stiffens, before she feels hands gently clasp over hers.

"Like this," Adrian says.

Franziska relaxes. It was a strange talent of Adrian's, she thinks, to take something so foolish and tedious and transform it into warmth.

* * *

Adrian has always disliked trials. 

They are wretched things, filled with the corrupt influence of politicians and celebrities and the ruthless manipulations of lawyers. She knows more than most how many lives have been destroyed in these courtrooms.

Her opinion even now is mostly the same. She hates the sound of the descending gavel and the terrified face of the defendant.

And yet somehow, Adrian thinks Franziska is at her most beautiful here, even grimacing, at a loss to counter the defense's most recent argument. Her gaze flicks upwards, briefly. Just long enough for Adrian to be sure their eyes had met; just long enough for her to believe there might have been time for Franziska to see the faith behind Adrian's smile.

Franziska collects herself, eyes narrowed, and her lips curl into that familiar smirk.

It is not quite a new emotion, but she thinks she's never realized it fully until this moment; it had been wrapped too tightly between love and affection and trust before. But it comes to her now, as Franziska cracks the whip against her podium to voice her objection, and she enjoys the newly defined weight of it amidst everything else.

Adrian looks at Franziska now, tangled amidst this somber courtroom, and feels proud.

* * *

The trial was going well, until the defense brought up that pesky little contradiction. She's almost reminded of Phoenix Wright. 

Still, even as she grimaces, she takes some satisfaction at the beads of sweat pouring from the defense attorney's brow, wetting the collar of his shirt as they trickle past his neck and chin. She's not sure she'll ever stop seeing those that confront her as opponents to be beaten.

As long as the truth is paramount, she doesn't think she has to.

Now collected, she readies her finishing blow. But then, as though prompted by some sixth sense, she raises her eyes to the public gallery.

Adrian is there.

Franziska continues, wonders if anyone caught that tiny hitch in her words when her eyes met Adrian's.

Adrian is there.

Papa never came to her trials. She's seen Miles's; Miles has watched hers. But always through a tiny, impersonal television window. She's never seen anyone _there_, smiling with (pride) emotion, mouthing (I'm proud of you) words.

Her world seems to contract around her, this "truth" becomes more vital than anything else.

Franziska collects herself and finishes the trial.

But what lingers in her mind after it's all over isn't the defendant's face, for once, but the light in Adrian's eyes.


End file.
